Heart of survivance: Aloha ‘āina as resistance and renewal

Abigail Lopez

(Editor’s note: This essay was the winning entry in the 2024–2025 Abarquez Essay Competition at California State University, Northridge.)

Growing up in the diaspora, I often attempted to ground my identities in a locale that did not speak the same tongue as my ancestors, nor did it love in the same ways I do. Yet the realities of diaspora have always bound me to the places where love is and the spaces that have been able to hold these fragmented pieces of me. As a queer daughter of Filipino immigrants, the concept of home has always been where family is and the Philippines, but this idea became more complex as I began navigating each identity that I struggled to give a voice to or even attempted to silence. Somewhere along the way, California State University Northridge (CSUN) Asian American Studies (AAS) courses equipped me with the language and knowledge of how space and place are reference points to understand the intimacies of interconnectedness within the diaspora and collective responsibilities to nurture the land that holds us.

However, underscoring how Pacific Islander (PI) narratives are decentralized within AAS because the frameworks lack a culturally critical lens that reinforces settler colonial logics of Native erasure is crucial. We must embody an alternative framework that would not only evoke community healing, but also Indigenous, land-based healing, which traditional “live, work, and play,” environmental justice frameworks have often fallen short of and have failed to create an intersectional approach that encompasses Native Hawaiian (Kānaka ʻŌiwi) issues. To live in a political and land-conscious way requires that, “relationality is centered and creates notions of responsibility between people (participants) and strives to create responsibilities to place” (Vaughn and Ambo 524). To live in relation with one another explicitly entails an axis of either uplifting or exploiting one another, and whichever one we consciously lean towards is up to us. In this paper, I strive to not only educate on the history of Hawai’i and introduce a praxis we can all embody, but convict you, the reader, to let love guide you to find the intimacies that lie between human connection and the lands that hold our stories.

The ramifications of Hawai’i’s sovereign kingdom being overthrown by U.S. interests are deeply intertwined in contemporary environmental justice efforts, seen through challenging settler colonist ideals, militarization, and economic exploitation. In response to environmental justice’s failure to address Kānaka ʻŌiwi issues, scholars and activists advocate for a shift towards restorative environmental justice that “takes into account the unique experiences of Indigenous Hawaiians” (MacKenzie et al., 37). To understand the depth of this shift, one must analyze the erasure of aloha ‘āina within settler colonialism, militaristic advancements, and scientific projects. Themes of exploration will address the dispossession and restoration of Kānaka ʻŌiwi means of self-determination, proposing culturally responsive remedies for healing and justice by recentering aloha ‘āina in society.

Aloha ‘āina, often imperfectly translated as “love for the land” and, in a Western lens, matriotism (love for the motherland), is used at the center of the Kānaka resistance, but embodies a depth that extends beyond this interpretation. In the context of Indigenous rights and autonomy, aloha ‘āina serves as a praxis that “exults the land” through land-centered literacies (Silva 32). One must note that in Western practices, an individual or corporation can privatize land, while Kānaka ʻŌiwi respect ‘āina as communal. Additionally, within PI Studies specific to Hawai’i, Kānaka ʻŌiwi recognizes the ‘āina (land) and moana (ocean) in a genealogical respect in which ‘āina cannot be monopolized but is a teacher and relative. Understanding this framework further, the “survivance of stories, chants, genealogies, celestial and geographical mapping, practical instructions, and prayers” are constituted by the intimate connection and knowledge of the land cultivated through our actions—embodying aloha ‘āina (Goodyear-Ka’opua 36). To cultivate a deeper understanding, analyzing the implications of opposing aloha ‘āina is essential as this examination is integral to comprehending how to resist colonial ideologies that seek to erase and exploit Kānaka ʻŌiwi.

The Great Māhele of 1848 marked a pivotal moment in Hawaiian history, laying the foundation for both settler colonialism and militarization of the islands. Intended to socioeconomically “advance” the basis of land ownership, it ultimately enabled the dominance, dispossession, and decimation of Kānaka ʻŌiwi. The majority of the land was sold to haole—facilitating the transition from matriotism to private ownership, propelling the creation of the U.S.-based corporations and military entitlement in Hawai’i. Agriculturally, this newfound authority led to the decline of lo’i kalo (wetland taro farms) over a span of 200 years from 98% to 0.2% in the early 21st century, eliminating Kānaka ʻŌiwi’s form of sustainable self-determination and forcing Hawai’i to be import dependent and undermining Kānaka resilience (Lai, To Steal a Kingdom: Hawai’i). This foreshadowed the future perception of Kānaka as “pupils in need of tutelage rather than as teachers and intellectual leaders” and “eternally childlike” (Goodyear-Ka’opua xiii-xiv). With these colonial hierarchies reinforced, militarization took precedence, leading to the bombing of Kaho’olawe in 1941 and continuing for over 50 years.

Kahoʻolawe highlights the tension between the island’s cultural significance and its historical desecration through militarization, justifying the means of exploitation by its physical characteristics, making it ideal for arms operations (Ho). Prior to its subjugation, Kaho’olawe was a sacred island that nurtured Kānaka ʻŌiwi “celestial navigation, bountiful fishing grounds, and a spot where native priests carried out cultural and religious rites” (Graff). Part of cultivating a familial relationship with the ‘āina entails respecting the life that derives from the ‘āina and moana, which allows for an understanding that all living forms, including Kānaka, are composed of organic material and part of a relationship that is reciprocal. Unfortunately, this was not respected by the U.S. military and resulted in the degradation of sacred land, surpassing the usable traditional frameworks of environmental justice. Kaho’olawe is now uninhabitable due to the lack of nutrient-rich resources, while posing a health hazard with the presence of depleted uranium and its chemical makeup that can damage kidneys. Consequently, neighboring Kānaka are disproportionately exposed to toxins that are not prevalent, or even accessible, in most areas of the world (Murry et al.). In response to all these compounding issues, Protect Kahoʻolawe ‘Ohana (PKO) was created in 1976 to advocate for the protection and restoration of Kaho’olawe by Kānaka ʻŌiwi and supporters to halt further militarization.

To highlight an individual within the collective movement, wahine koa (courageous woman), Moanikeʻala Akaka, was one of the founders of PKO and has been “integral to movements for Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) political and cultural sovereignty” (Warren). As a notable organizing starting point, Akaka along with 31 activists were arrested after protesting the eviction of Kalama Valley residents in 1971, because Bishop Estate, the largest private property owner in Hawai’i, announced their plans of expanding their business ventures on that land. Additionally, in 1978, Akaka was one of many activists sitting on a Hilo Airport runway in protest of the Department of Hawaiian Homes Lands (DHHL) using ceded lands for decades without benefiting or providing homes for Kānaka (Kokua Hawaii Oral History). These efforts, along with her twelve-year tenure as a trustee for the Office of Hawaiian Affairs, were true embodiments of aloha ʻāina and dedication to Kanaka sovereignty—who are still actively in the avid fight for their livelihood in every social, economic, and political sphere. Following Akaka’s legacy, PKO now works toward healing of Kaho’olawe to revitalize its condition to host cultural practices and learning once again for Kānaka, allowing for the resurgence of land-centered literacies of ecological knowledge and agricultural practices.

Contemporary movements in Hawai‘i frequently address the commodification of land, critically examining how scientific advancements contribute to the ongoing exploitation and transformation of ‘āina. The ethics of scientific research often come into question especially when agendas leave marginalized communities vulnerable and exploited—inherently supporting racist, colonist ideologies under the guise of “progress.” The development of projects like the Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) that was proposed in 2014 on Maunakea exemplifies this ethical issue, as it threatens to disrupt not only the environment, such as the destruction of aquifers, but the sacred value it serves “to connect Native Hawaiians to the cosmos” (Fagan). The proposed placement of the TMT is directly above Hawai’i’s aquifer and if the project’s wastewater were to contaminate the aquifer, it would impact the primary water source of Kānaka ʻŌiwi that live on the other side of the island. In this event, it would strip Kānaka ʻŌiwi means of self-determination through their resources, potentially creating a domino effect of risking the destruction of crop sustainability. This public health hazard supports the traditional frameworks of environmental justice, but is still not a perceived, valued component to supporters of whether the construction should continue (Grange et al.). These justifications entirely overlook Kānaka ʻŌiwi values and livelihoods, reinforcing a colonial capitalist mindset of entitlement and Western privatization. This has led to the emergence of a movement to protect Maunakea, formed by Kānaka ʻŌiwi and allies, dedicated to protecting the land from exploitation. Recognizing that two educational systems—University of Hawai’i and University of California—support the construction is also crucial. The irony persists as these institutions that encourage the pursuit and questioning of knowledge are funding the active exploitation of sacred lands and the marginalized communities that they supposedly “support.”